Inside the diverse world of Middle-Earth, there are dragons; drakes-they are creatures that breath fire and fly throughout the skies, seeking treasures and many different things for many different reasons. These dragons, however, are belligerent, pugnacious creatures that bring death and tragedy with them, like a sudden storm. They only know destruction.
These creatures must be controlled, too. Only a few dragons have ever existed, but, when they do exist, many lives and land are lost to the inferno that is released by the flying creatures of death.
There is a certain clan of special warriors called the Dragoons. They are dragon-slayers. They learn the language of the reptilians; they also learn of the beasts, themselves, too. The Dragoons learn how to harbor the pyro inside the dragons once they are slain with the special weapons forged from dragon fire. The Dragoons know of an ancient spell to absorb the souls of the dragons, and gain their abilities of pyro.
The Dragoons are isolated people. They do not like to coincide with other species and races, even though they are of the Man race in Middle-Earth. The Dragoons are quite friendly to anyone who trespassed onto their territory, which is located outside of Gondor. Dragoons are quite peaceful and robust people, with ecstatic moods and stupendous personalities.
Dragoons, however, only have one purpose in life: kill any dragons that endanger the people and creatures of Middle-Earth.
Each Dragoon is usually destined with one dragon they have to kill. They will envision many horrific nightmares and suffer many pains, which are caused by the dragon; the stronger the pain, the stronger the dragon. If a Dragoon fails to kill, another Dragoon, usually an adolescent, will inherit the pains and visions, and seek out the dragon.
Dragoons will stop at nothing until their kill is finished; they are determined folk. They teach themselves how to defend their bodies against the flames of the dragon; they created armor against the inferno.
Lastly, Dragoons love each other, and are relatively low in numbers, too. There never has been over fifty Dragoons living at once. They are sometimes defined as lunatics, and insane. The people of Middle-Earth fear the dragons, however, they don't usually live long enough to see any dragons in their lifetimes. Dragoons, however, only live ten years after their kill.
If they cannot kill another dragon and renew those ten years, then they combust into fiery embers and ash, and simply float onto the ground, and get mixed with the soil and the rivers.
It was a peaceful day for the kingdom of Erebor. The bright blue skies radiated a positive, ecstatic mood, lightening the souls of the dwarves that reside in Dale, the city that encircled the mountain kingdom of Erebor. The dwarves inside the city usually busied themselves with shopping, socialization, and many other entertaining activities. The dwarves lived very serene lives.
The sun emitted a stupendous feel and sensation. Dwarves ran around the city, enjoying the wonderful nice weather. The men were either mining, on sentry duty, or were working the vendors. The females and children were shopping and socializing.
Inside the mountainous kingdom of Erebor, sat a Dwarven king. The king apathetically eyed a gem while he sat on his throne. He was wearing his kingly robes and attire, dressed in fine furs. The king was an old Dwarf; his beard and hair were silver. He wore a golden crown upon his lordly head.
Beside him, stood his grandson, Thorin Oakenshield. Thorin was a buff and muscular dwarf. His black hair touched his shoulders, while his shorter beard was glistening from the torchlight. He was dressed in simple cloths-a tunic and trousers. He was the next heir of the throne. He was the son of Thrain, who was the son of Thror. Thorin was royalty, and he enjoyed every moment of it.
He couldn't wait to be king.
Thorin glanced away while his grandfather, Thror, King Under the Mountain, released a languid sigh. Thorin looked below him, staring at the bright ocean of gold, jewels, and gems. He longed to own every pound, every gem, that resided in the monolith ocean of gold.
Many of these days were boring for him. Thorin usually accompanied his grandfather during his meetings and appointments. Besides that, Thorin was a respected warrior, too. He was one of the best inside Erebor. His friend, Dwalin, also held an esteemed title of an ardent warrior.
Thorin glanced apathetically towards his grandfather, who was still transfixed upon the random gem. Thorin looked above the King, looking at the exquisite jewel that was added to the royal throne.
The Arkenstone-the most beautiful object in the world.
Thorin had learned to love that shiny jewel. It was the treasure of the kingdom, and the most valuable object. Thorin sometimes became transfixed upon the beauty, the exuberant gem sending him into a stupor. Thorin couldn't comprehend the beauty of the light, the colors, and the glimmer of the gem.
To him, the Arkenstone was his life, just like his dream to become king.
Thorin was in his normal, routine stupor when he was disrupted by an enigmatic dwarf. Thror glanced apathetically at the dwarf, who was gasping for air. The dwarf leaned over, panting. Thorin furrowed his brow as the dwarf stood erect, fixing his composure and posture in front of the king. "Your Majesty, there is a visitor requesting your council."
"I didn't request any visitors today, you idiot!" growled Thror. "I distinctly recall ordering that I be left alone today-I don't want any visitors!'
"But, Your Majesty, it's imperative that you see this man! He claims he knows you personally," said the dwarf sheepishly. The dwarf was young and his beard wasn't long, Thorin noticed; he must've been hired recently as a servant.
Thror rose from his throne. He stood erect. "Who is this man you speak of? Unless they have any rare gems-none can best the Arkenstone, though-then they can shove off! I don't wish to be bothered!"
Thorin flinched slightly at his grandfather's words. He didn't know that Thror could be so belligerent. Thror was quite friendly and socialistic, and seeing him deny visitors was quite rare. Thorin, too, had always welcomed visitors, even though he wasn't the most ecstatic dwarf. Thorin kept his thoughts equivocal, though.
"He claims to be one of 'de Dragoons!" cried the dwarf. Thorin raised an eyebrow, the dwarf piquing his interests. He recalled the fabled stories of the Dragoons, the slayers of dragons. Dragons were rare and mythical, but, the Dragoons had proved that dragons do exist. Thorin had to see one to believe their existence, though-that was his philosophy.
Thror chuckled warmly and grinned. "I know of the Dragoon you speak of; I will see him immediately!" Thorin was surprised at his grandfather's sudden change of composure and emotion.
Thror approached Thorin and quickly began to fix Thorin's cloths. "Thorin, my dear grandson, you're about to see a legend! This man had slayed several dragons in his lifetime-the Men claim that he's the best Dragoon in Middle-Earth, and possibly, the best to exist. I expect your best attitude, and be professional."
"Yes, grandfather," Thorin grunted. He swatted away Thror's hands and fixed his cloths. Thror shook his head, chuckling, and turned towards the entrance of the throne room. Thorin saw two figures moving into the throne room, walking slowly to absorb the scenery. Thorin studied the approaching figures; one figure was tall, and the other was quite short-possibly a child.
Thorin sighed. He was royalty. He was apart of the linage of Durin, yet, he could never be professional. He was different from his grandfather. Thorin had a taste for adventure and action, and wasn't the regal king that his grandfather wanted him to aspire to become. He wanted to be different-he liked different; it was him. His father, Thrain, was different, too. Thrain wasn't the regal prince that many dwarrows imagined him to be.
The figures approached, and Thorin tensed his shoulders. The taller figure was quite muscular. He was holding the hand of the smaller figure, who was a child. The Man child looked to be six or seven in Man years. His nephews, Kili and Fili, were somewhat close to the lad's age. The boy looked apprehensive about the new environment; it was clear that he was uncomfortable.
"Hello, my dear friend!" exclaimed Thror as he sauntered towards the Man and embraced him warmly. The Man dropped the child's hand and embraced the king warmly. Thorin kept his eyes on the child, who was staring at Thorin. They exchanged a silent conversation. Thorin was tempted to acknowledge the child verbally, but he kept his words equivocal.
"Hello, Your Majesty," replied the Man as they pulled away. The Man held Thror's shoulders. "My, you've grown! I haven't seen you since the downfall of Azagalla, and, you were more uglier then!"
They exchanged a quick laughter. Thror shifted his attention to the child. "Murrow, is this your son?"
"Yes," laughed the Man named Murrow. He picked up his son, and held him. "His name is Daedric. Say hello, Daedric."
"Hello," said the young boy. He looked at the king, and sheepishly waved at him. The boy had dark blue eyes and black hair. The hair was swiped to the side. Murrow was almost identical to his son: blue eyes and black hair. His hair was spiked upwards at the front, though. Murrow's clean face was fatherly and quite handsome. Murrow was quite tall-he was nearly three heads taller than Thror.
Thror bowed to the boy. "Hello, Daedric-I'm the King Under the Mountain, Thror. I'm humbled to be in the presence of an adolescent Dragoon!" Thror turned to Thorin. "Adolescent Dragoons are quite rare, Throin, because Dragoons have a low fertility rate."
Thorin noticed that Murrow looked away as Daedric buried his face on the crook of his father's neck. Murrow rubbed his son's back as Thorin watched them.
Thror cleared his throat. "I apologize; this is my grandson, and next heir, Thorin Oakenshield, son of Thrain."
Murrow looked at Thorin and quickly studied him. "Well, hello, future king. My name is Murrow, a Dragoon."
"Nice to meet your acquaintance, Dragoon," Thorin said deadpan.
"Why did you travel this way, Murrow?" asked Thror kindly. "I believe your talents should be closer to Gondor or somewhere...not as populated."
"Actually, I'm here because there is a dragon closing in," said Murrow.
"He's nasty," said Daedric, his face pulled away from his father's neck.
"He's is nasty, but your father can beat him," laughed Murrow as he looked at his son. He kissed his son on the forehead, and chuckled as they touched foreheads. Thorin noticed that was a Dwarrow's sign of affection.
Thror frowned. "It's close, isn't it?"
Murrow looked at Thror, his head resting against Daedric's head. "Yes, but our battle will occur in an unpopulated area nearby. I will keep Smaug, the dragon, away from Erebor." Murrow set down Daedric. He sauntered towards Thorin and Thror and pulled them aside. Daedric looked at the ocean of gold.
"What's wrong?" asked Thror. They were standing near the throne as Daedric was distracted by the bright yellow sea.
Murrow rubbed his face and looked at the two dwarves. He rubbed his eyes and sniffed. "You must take care of Daedric."
"That's not a problem," smiled Thror. "He will be safe while you defeat Smaug and-"
"I can't defeat Smaug!" hissed Murrow. There was a tear rolling down his cheek. "One Dragoon can kill ten dragons until they lose their powers and the new generation takes over. I had already slain my ten dragons, my friend."
Thorin looked at Murrow. "You intend to sacrifice yourself, don't you?"
Murrow nodded despondently. "You can't let Daedric learn of my reasons; he doesn't fully understand the Dragoonian ways. He already lost his mother at birth, and I hate to see him in anymore pain. I ask that you two raise him. I have to sacrifice myself and transfer my powers onto Daedric. He won't receive his powers until his sixteenth birthday, which is in nearly eighty years. You cannot let his discover my demise, too."
"Murrow," said Thror sheepishly. "You...came here to say goodbye."
"Yes, my friend, I did. You're my dearest friend, and I cannot leave without saying goodbye. I have to defend my kin and yours. I need you to evacuate your people immediately. I cannot determine how quickly I can keep Smaug distracted, but, I need you to take Daedric with you. I need him to survive. The number of Dragoons is at a nadir, and he's one of the only adolescent Dragoons left. Our seed is becoming unfertile, apparently. Daedric will learn in time, and his powers will be inherited when he's sixteen."
"Murrow, what do you want us to do?" Thorin asked, since Thror was looking away, tears flowing into his beard.
"Teach him to become a warrior, Oakenshield. I want him to learn how to fight! He is the next Dragoon, and he will defend this realm. I need you to be his teacher and his father. You don't have to show him affection, but he will need love. You could give him a rough, stoic love, but he needs it. I'm his only family left, but I need you to be his new family. Accept him as your surrogate son, please. I don't need him heartbroken and depressed; he is going to reclaim Middle-Earth from the dragons."
Thorin gave Murrow a perplexed look. "I will try my best, Dragoon, but I will not promise the love. I don't have any immediate children, so my, well, parental skills might not be sufficient. Thror and Thrain, my father, are more experienced with parental advice and fatherly love. I am a warrior, not a caregiver."
Murrow sighed despondently. "Thorin, just take him. Train him to beome an adequate warrior, and then, you can abandon my child. Daedric needs some skill with swordsmanship, then, you can leave."
Thorin looked into Murrow's eyes, examining him. Thorin never particularly liked Men, but, something inside Murrow swayed his opinion. Murrow seemed nice enough, and trust-worthy, too. Thorin sighed. "Alright, I will take your son. I cannot promise much, but he will become an adequate warrior, I ensure you."
Murrow quickly embraced the stout dwarf. "Thank you."
Thorin pulled away, uncomfortable with the sudden affection of the Dragoon. "You're welcome. I will evacuate my kin while you defend our kingdom."
Murrow nodded and sauntered towards his son. Thror wiped the tears from his face as he took side by his grandson. Thorin looked at Thror, and then, back to the Dragoon. His father, Thrain, was in Dale. Thorin would rush into town once the alarm had been set. He needed to defend his grandfather, even if it meant losing his life.
Murrow crouched, reaching his son's level. Daedric looked at his father. "Da', how much gold down 'der?"
"I don't know, son," Murrow chuckled. "I never took the opportunity to count every piece. Hopefully, one day, you can have the esteemed privilege to count every piece, and you can determine the number."
Daedric laughed and leapt towards his father, who caught him. "I love you, Da'"
"I love you, too, Daedric," said Murrow as he kissed his son's forehead. He held his son tightly, not wanting to lose him. Thorin watched the heartwarming scene. His father and him never shared much affection, but, Thorin could relate to the father. He cared for his younger brother and many other dwarrows. He could feel the pain of the father.
Murrow stood erect, holding his son. He sauntered towards the King and his heir. He set down Daedric. He knelt down and hugged him for the last time. "Daedric, I love you so much. These two wonderful dwarves will watch you while Da' fights the dragon. I will be back, I promise."
"Okay, Da'!" laughed Daedric as he squirmed in his father's arms. "Go kill dragon!"
Murrow pulled away and stood erect. "I will." He spun on his heel and sauntered down the throne room, weeping silently. His back was to his son, so Daedric couldn't see the pain and anguish on his father's face.
Daedric looked to the two dwarves. He smiled. "Hello."
Thror smiled despondently. "Hello, little child. Would you like to come with us? We have to leave while your father defeats the evil dragon."
"Where are we going to go?"
"Away," said Thorin as he sauntered past the Man child. "We're going away."
Thorin watched from a safe distance. He stood on a hill, distantly watching the inferno that engulfed Dale. The embers floated into the air as Thorin concentrated his transfixed eyes upon Erebor. That damned dragon was sitting inside his kingdom, laying and smothering his gold and his gems-that dragon stole his kingdom. Thorin rubbed his bearded face as he stared at the entrance of Erebor. The fire drake was sitting inside his home. It was sitting with his precious treasures.
That damned lizard was inhabiting the home of the Arkenstone.
Thorin looked away, seeing Thror and Thrain distantly, talking inaudibly. Thorin huffed quietly and fell back into his stupor. He was racking his brain for solutions, however, he knew that Dragoons can only break the hide of the dragon. Unfortunately, the only nearby Dragoon was dead, half of his body resting inside of the dragon.
Thorin saw the grizzly scene. He was rushing towards the entrance of Erebor when he saw half of Murrow being devoured by the dragon, Smaug. Thorin saw the Dragoon patiently wait while the dragon bit the Man in half. Thorin felt bile rise into his throat; he could still recall the sound of tearing flesh and cracking armor. The tough teeth of the dragon could pierce the armor of the poor Dragoon.
Thorin shook his head, dispersing the horrid memories away. Thorin looked to his far right, and saw the young child of Murrow standing on a rock, watching Dale. Dusk was slowly engulfing the hills around Erebor. The boy watched the kingdom of dwarves, silently waiting for something to happen. Thorin knew the child was waiting for his father to return.
The dwarf slowly sauntered towards the child, taking careful and quiet steps. Behind him, hundreds—or thousands—of dwarves were waiting patiently, hoping for a quick solution to be offered. Many other dwarves had left, too scared to remain around the lands that were covered in death. Many other dwarves were agitated by the neglect given from the Elves, too.
Thorin crept towards the child, who was ominously watching the inferno intently. Thorin approached the child, who didn't acknowledge him. Thorin crouched slightly and hunched beside the young child. The boy, Daedric, gave him an apathetic glance, and turned his attention back towards Dale and Erebor.
"Daedric," Thorin muttered. "He's not coming back. Smaug has taken shelter inside Erebor. I'm sorry, but your father didn't survive."
"Impossible," Daedric quickly replied. "Da' is too strong to die."
"Daedric-"
"No, mister dwarf," snapped the young child. "Da' is alive."
Thorin sighed and stood erect. "He's dead, and you should accept that. Don't live your life in denial, Man child. If you live your life in denial, you'll be consumed in darkness. Your father needs you to prepare for when you mature and gain the ability to defeat dragons. Your father needs you to be strong."
"My father can teach me," said Daedric determinedly. "He will come."
"No, he won't," growled Thorin. "Your father is dead! I saw him get devoured by Smaug!" He didn't realize his voice was rising. "Murrow is gone! He will not emerge through those flames and saunter towards you like a champion! Your father is dead, Daedric!"
Daedric shook his head as he began to sob. Daedric dropped to his knees. "Dad! No..."
Thorin sighed and looked away, seeing some dwarves watching him suspiciously. Thorin cursed under his breath. "Aye, Daedric, I understand your pain. Don't stay here and cry; you need to come with me."
Daedric stood tall, still crying, and nodded several times. "'K."
Thorin smirked and put a hand on the child's shoulder. "I'm not too bad, you know."
Daedric looked away as the darkness began to thicken. Daedric shrugged off the dwarf's grip and sauntered past him, brushing arms with the heir. Thorin watched the boy walk past, and he sighed. This would be a difficult task to complete.
Thorin had his work cut out for him.